Wallbreakers Redux
by ScriptForPeace
Summary: As one exasperated officer once said, "The war don't matter one fig. Falling In Love is the big doodah around here." And exercise in nonrestraint, potatoes, and everyone except the idiot down the road.
1. Endgame

Disclaimer: Hajime Isayama owns Shingeki no Kyojin. I own a FanFiction account. That should explain most things.

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><p><strong>AN: Due to an insanely stupid move, I deleted my primary e-mail that enabled me to access FanFiction. Essentialy, I'm locked out of my Sanskrit For Peace account so I created a new one! Yippee. So if you actually do dig up my fics (grand total of three...bah) please don't flame me with your** **righteous indignition. I am said dodo who forgot the basics of account termination. **

**That being said, I revamped my Wallbreakers fanfic. Lo and behold, Wallbreakers Redux hits the stores. And its better, I swear it! Primarily, its Sasha/Levi (SmallPotato!) with a side of Eremika. Anyone else is fair game, so if you have suggestions, please do PM me or leave a request in the reviews. (If there are reviews, because if there aren't I'd feel pretty dumb talking to a computer...ookay). **

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><p>Title: Endgame<p>

Pairing: SmallPotato! (Sasha/Levi, crack)

Summary: Fin. Why we flip to the back page.

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><p>It starts, indefinitely, with the story of a man who has an obscenely impenetrable poker face and a girl goes berserk around sustenance. That is to say, they don't know if it's a bad thing, criminal or wrong both morally and socially-<p>

-but hey, it's about them. Screw the boundaries.

Love is like that. The possibilities are endless, bounding before them in a fantastically proportioned mass of pulsing hue. It fills the back of their eyes with explosions of colour, sparking along their nerve endings. The space between their ears drowns in a cacophony of sound that leaves them shivering and frightened of its foreignism; yet there are times when absolute stillness reigns, and in that silence all they can think, all that their thoughts may think, is that there is nothing clearer than their depth of feeling. How true, how honest their hearts beat for love and life, before adversity and for the future.

For each other.

Sometimes the young villager from Dauper nibbles on crusts and warmed stew left over from the pot, her heart weeping in memory of empty stomachs and mothers sobbing in the night. Sometimes the Captain of humanity's strongest spares a loaf from his dinner and leaves it on the kitchen table. On the side, he tells the cook not to empty the stew pot.

Sometimes the Captain feels the ache to clean in the very marrow of his bones. His fingers uncurl in a painful movement, and he yearns for the overwhelming scent of disinfectant to soak into his skin, if only to stop the illusion of blood on his hands.

_Comrades. Enemies. Rivulets. Rivers. _

Sometimes, the villager leaves a bit of stolen fruit on her bed sheets and lures ants into her bed. She doesn't mind the punishment much, and anyway the Captain's always less antagonistic (and, well downright _terrifying_) after he's had a go at wringing the dirty out of her things.

Because she understands pain, and coping mechanisms. She understands that strength can only take you so far. She understands fear for the cold creeping thing that it is.

(_It always comes as a pleasant surprise though, when she manages to drag her weary feet to her quarters; her entire bunk smells of the wildflowers she'd ended up picking back home instead of shooting game. No one really knows why she almost merges in to her mattress after the Captain gives her bed the usual cleansing, but after a bout of hand to hand combat training, at the end of which he has to pry her of the ground, he lingers an inch to close, a second to long; intimate enough to catch the whiff of violets and delphinium. She blushes and goes mutter__mutter__mutter__- but it's enough for him to sigh and think: "You're welcome."_)

Sometimes a young girl on the cusp of womanhood begins to understand the desires a man might harbour for her. It comes to her in flashes; short words and heated glances that need time, maturity and a hell of a lot of thinking to understand. Sometimes a man who's never been a child finds his defences crumbling like yesterday's crumbs before a young girl; so swift is his want, that he almost imagines the flashes of desire that clog his throat and affect his movement in the most damning of moments. Of all women he had to pick the not-quite-but-almost-woman. But he learns. He learns like all men before him, what it is to love a woman, and what it is to love _his_ woman.

And when they both solve this puzzling little crypt; this age old puzzle...this fledgling tie, thin and tentative, envelopes them in a world where tomorrow is a day for fighting, but tonight...tonight is for them.

Love is a swish of red silk fluttering across the night sky. Free and boundless. It's incomprehensible. It's all-encompassing. Its damned fantastic, is what it is.

..

..

Or you know, not. Hell, at least maybe now, Ackerman might stop making devil's eyes at him every time he goes near Eren.


	2. Strawberry Shot

Once upon a time, a man set his son down and told him, " Son, sometime the world turns upside down and you do stupid things, most probably because your arse has ended up your head and your head has upped for the hills because it couldn't stand being in your arse...well you get the point, right?"

The son stopped chewing sausage and feigned comprehension.

The father cleared his throat and ploughed on. "When that day comes, all you can do is hold on to your pants, breathe and let the moment pass-and hopefully not fart while your brain is still in your arse."

The son never really understood what his old man was getting at, so he let the advice sink to the bottom of his memory like silt in a septic tank until one day...he really _really_ wished he'd remembered that cryptic little message. And _really_, as in get-down-and-scream-why-God-_why_-

Thus, began the age old tradition of fathers sitting down their slack faced sons to impart this golden rule: "Never let your head rule you while your arse is still in it."

So sons, when the time comes, don't. Just don't.

Only, Levi never had a father, and while mercifully escaping the clutches of bad-father-jokes and awkward sex talks, he was deprived of that life saving rule. That is to say, when the little alarm in the pit of his stomach went off, essentially screaming: "BAD THINGS ARE COMING FOR YOU-"

-he didn't get it.

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><p>The mess hall is rife with the sound chinking mugs, the clattering of cutlery on military issued plates, and the steady drone of chatter. Soldiers sit like bags of flour on the benches, propping up their elbows on the long well-worn tables as they slurp down stew. The atmosphere is bustling- all except for that one little circle of quiet that everyone does their best to avoid, because, well-<p>

(One graduate from the new 105th corps actually asked his senior why. The senior took a deep breath and took him into orbit around the spot...and then Captain Levi tapped him on the shoulder from behind, and said: "Move, you little shit. You're in my way." ...The graduate's never really recovered.)

Zoë Hanji though, has no such qualms about personal space, much less Levi-Space.

She plonks her arse down beside him and slings an arm around his shoulders like a rabid boar encompassing a mongoose, the kinds he'd once seen in an illegal excursion to an 'Endangered Species Exhibition' as a child. Levi sighs, but carries on eating. There is no fighting Hanji when she's got an idea in her head. She tosses him a fragile little box all wrapped up in pink crêpe paper, sugary soft and terribly expensive by the look of it. It lands right by his bowl of stew with a soft 'put put' sound that stinks of luxury. Trademark Wall Sina, Levi acknowledges with one very, very sarcastic lift of the eyebrow.

It's bow-tied and simpering and he sure as hell doesn't need Hanji's incessant cooing about how pretty it looks. Levi wants to lam the box right back in her face, hand already twitching with preliminary action, but his nose picks up on a faint scent of sweetness emitting through the wrapping, bringing him back to a time when nicking fruit of a vendor's stall was second nature and savouring it was a treat to be treasured. He pauses mid-air.

"I had the liberty of meeting one of your _adoring_ admirers, oh distinguished and _oh-so honourable_ Captain", Hanji simpers right in his ear.

"Piss. Off," Levi mutters. Hanji is like a burst of undesirable manure to his steadily growing impatience.

"Oh, but _Captain_," Hanji prattles on, "If only you'd seen her! She had lovely grey hair and a figure like a sack full of apples tied in the middle, so _elegant_, so _beayuuu_-"

He sets down his spoon, eye twitching. That eye twitch is a legend on all its own; separate from the entity known as Humanity's Strongest Soldier. That eye twitch is Humanity's Worst Nightmare. Hanji has seen the ramifications of not acknowledging that eye twitch.

"Hanji."

"Sir?"

"Disappear."

"-Okey dokey," she chirps-

-and runs for _hell_.

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><p>Levi takes another mouthful of stew, striving for complete freedom from expression. He chews, he swallows. That shitty ass pink catches his eye.<p>

Open. Open. _Open_. The fucking box is _speaking _to him, he swears it; lying there in its false innocence, taunting him, teasing him.

He pauses just to spite the damned thing.

The lunch crowd bustles around him like a bunch of fat flies -all their chatter and slurping and the goddamned food dropping on the floor -_it's like it has eyes, big googly beckoning–_No. No. He's strong. He's disciplined. He's-

-shoving in his last spoonful and slicing through the wrapping with one swipe of his dinner knife, bowtie and all.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of the contents. Strawberries. Off-season strawberries nestled plumply on their little round behinds, glistening little red jewels just waiting to be tasted. And all for him.

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><p><em>then he's back on the streets, creeping up on the fat, squishy looking vendor who always used to set up his cart on the corner beside the post office, him with the sweaty face but clean hands. And he can remember how it was to lie waiting in the little crevice by the office with his stomach an empty, hollow pit, eagerly awaiting the moment when the fat ugly turned away from his wares. He'd reach out a hand, like a snake, and then the moment passes by so fast, the next flash of memories are the cobbled streets whizzing by and the beat beat of his footsteps a pattern drummed into his head–little street urchin clutching his prize to his chest-and the Lance Corporal's hand itches for a memory to hold.<em>

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><p>So here it is: Lance Corporal Levi fucking <em>loves<em> strawberries. He can't remember the last time he actually had a bite of them, and here they are -a boxful_. Full_._ Box_.

It's a good day.

But the issue at hand is that he won't stand for other people-especially not this current batch of lardlings sharing air space with him-watching as he takes enjoyment from eating them. Hell, he can't stand the world watching as he takes enjoyment out of _anything_.

So he waits. And waits. And waits. Moments tick by, measured out to the sounds of eating and rare laughter. In his bubble of enforced stillness, what little joy his soldiers can scrape together permeates to him. Candlelight washes over the fruit, lighting them up like little beacons of salvation-

And then Levi just _loses _it.

Humanity's strongest picks out a strawberry by the tips of his fingers and takes a bite of personal heaven. Fresh, clean flavour erupts on his tongue, sending a sweet slide of juice down his throat. It leaves a hint of tangy aftertaste, a niggling itch of sourness that perches on the balance of ripe and unripe, the kind that drives his tongue to rub up against the edges of his teeth. The strawberry is remembered perfection in his mouth. He finishes it in greedy bites, one, two, gorging on the tart, juicy plumpness of fruitflesh.

He summons up years of discipline to avoid taking another one immediately, and because his eyes are closed with the effort to contain that moment of appreciation,he hears it-that minuscule sound of enjoyment.

A whimper.

And its not him.

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><p>"<em>Hey guys?" Connie squeaks at one point during lunch. "Tell me I'm not the only one seeing this?"<em>

"_Eh?" Jean looks up from his plate. "What?"_

"_Are you not experiencing this miracle? Sasha's not stealing our food!"_

_The entire table pauses mid-action. "Well damn," Reiner wonders and as one entity they turn to Blouse-_

"_Well damn," Reiner says again._

_She's not eating. Sasha Blouse, resident food disposal unit, sits trancelike in her seat as Mikasa actually puts a hand in front of her mouth to feel for vapour. "She's breathing." she confirms flatly as Ymir snorts into her bowl._

"_Mikasa_ _that's not exactly hard to miss," says Armin wryly, seeing the agitated rise and fall of her chest._

_They watch as she hyperventilates, dazed and squirming in her seat. Connie can't fathom what in hell's name she's doing, staring into the empty space at the table in front of theirs. "What do we do?"_

"_Uhh...anybody got a spare loaf?" Eren asks._

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><p>Levi's eye snap open at the sound and -darn if it isn't just typical- sees the girl, the village girl who eats like a fucking bear-<p>

-staring. At his mouth.

There is a desperate, almost pleading pull at her lips, a tightness somewhere along the white edges of her nostrils. He snorts -but it is, rather, entertaining-

_-_fascinating_-_

_-distracting-_

-how her almond brown eyes are blown wide and open, her breathing just a teensy bit laboured-why, it's almost- _almost_-

(Somewhere in the universe there's a father's convention in crisis mode. Because, boys? You know those times when you absolutely need to remember the goddamn rule that your predecessors tried to drill into your heads?

This was one of them times.)

Levi reaches inside the box and her eyes flit to his fingertips. Interesting. His curiosity piqued, he moves his fingers back an inch; she follows the movement. He twists his hand in a bizarre imitation of a flexing exercise; her pupils blur with the effort of keeping up. He brings his index finger to his lips and flicks his tongue out to taste the remaining specks of juice; she positively _squirms_.

_Interesting._

He takes another strawberry, dangles it tantalisingly before both their eyes- and then in glorious slow motion, he lowers it into his mouth, tongue snaking around the rounded curve of it, coating the fruit with slippery saliva and hot breath. He bites down hard, spattering the insides of his mouth with juice as he in turn keeps his eyes on her face. He documents the by-play of emotions; the anxious misery, the anticipation, the widening of her mouth as she sucks in a sharp breath, how she flinches as his teeth _snap_ -

-but truly, it is the explosive darkening of her eyes, conscious light of intelligent brown slipping into a hazy, sultry shade of deep amber that occurs the instant the fruit's pocked surface pushes pass his lips. It is the little flick of her tongue, echoing his enjoyment. It is a hearkening to distant memory, a dream painted in faded hues that tugs at the emotions he has long put away. Tangled sheets, long drawn out sighs that echo of nights spent in a haze of passion, and he's lost.

Watching the village girl sends sparks of pure sensation straight to his groin. And it's damned inconvenient. As an afterthought, it's also laughable. She's a child.

_No child looks at a man like that, _his mind argues,_ like they're aching for him, wanting and needing-_

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><p><em>Levi has never liked the look of hunger on a person's face. It reminds him too much of overgrown maggots swallowing down humanity just because the filthy fucks feel like it. It reminds him of the countless refugees roaming the streets, of inadequacy and empty promises. Of loss and dishonour<em>-

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><p>-but Sasha Blouse is something else entirely. Because when Sasha Blouse looks at the strawberry making its jolly way to consumption, she doesn't look hungry; her face is a thunder flash of want, thrumming with attraction so base it's downright <em>unholy<em>.

Sasha Blouse, surrounded by her teammates and assorted comrades, Sasha Blouse in a room full of people, Sasha Blouse sitting across from her commanding officer, she of the clenched fists and trembling thighs, looking like she'd like nothing better than to tackle him to the ground-

-and suck the strawberry _right_ out of him.

It's shocking. It's criminal. It's demented-

-but he rather hopes she'd do it anyway.

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><p><em>It takes the squad some panicking and three bread sticks before they manage to snap Potato Girl out of her funk. She spends the rest of her lunch period deflecting questions by stuffing her face with baked starch and cold stew; cheeks puffed and stained so red that Mikasa reaches for her again, this time to check for broken blood vessels, but she says nothing, nothing at all-except to mutter some blasphemy about the devil and temptation under her breath. Just once.<em>

_She leaves a lot of crumbs._

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><p>On his next trip to Wall Sina, Levi gets Hanji to point out the overaged admirer who sent the strawberries and hell, she is <em>ugly<em>-but he deigns to curl his lips up in her general direction.

Two weeks later, the Scouting Legion's supply officer dumps a fruit crate in front of Sasha's door.

There's a note tucked in the crevices of the wooden panels. Sasha unfolds it, smooths out the little paper with trembling fingers. The handwriting is sparse, but the whimsical little loops not quite disguised around the y's and u's turn the roiling mess of her stomach into something quite-why, _almost_-

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><p>It says:<p>

_Your turn._


	3. Moral Filiality

Erwin Smith is acknowledged as the finest head the Survey Corps has ever produced: It's so accurate and downright mechanical that every plan he comes up with almost always ends up successful, and in these times, almost goes a long, long way. When you've seen hell and survived it, you come to realise that the commander's word is gospel, far more substantial than any dime a dozen priest with his theories about salvation and repentance. You join the ranks of those who have fought demons and believe that God is a stoic man whose eyes see neither here nor there but everywhere-in men's hearts, in men's dreams, in destruction and small triumphs that start a slow trickle of hope amongst the Outer Walls.

Levi is one of the masses. Levi's been a believer since the day Erwin saw a young man heft himself over three successive roofs with the vilest piece of 3DMG gear he'd ever seen, narrowly escaping a skewering by the Military Police.

He's been a believer since the day Erwin picked up a half starved young man off the streets, black eyed and bruised, ribs showing up against the red smear on his chest where blood pooled and congealed like the weight of his sins in this world.

He's been a believer since Erwin caught that young man by the elbow and said, "I need you."

He's been a believer since Erwin sent that young man into a military camp-

- and Lance Corporal Levi came out of it.

So this is why Levi agrees to be a poster boy for the corps; creates caveats fit for the high arts and bows low to the King, enough to see the shine of his boots and his ceremonial scabbard; exchanges the weight of dreams and gear for a uniform decked with accolades and brass buttons. He scrapes and measures out his good humour attention as if it is a thing of trade, stiffed backed and always-always he calculates for risks, shadows, and the glint of interest in a man's eyes-always he plans new ways to garner adulation, hack out devotion from these crowing bourgeoisie pigeonholed in their houses, protected by an endless wash of blood.

Levi helps Erwin. This is fact.

Because Erwin saves people. This is fact.

When his men die for him, they die with the knowledge that Erwin saves people. Erwin saves his countrymen, their dreams and if ever there was a sweet wrapper that needed saving, Erwin will have done that too. Erwin will save them all, if he is given enough support. If he has power by his side and the hound of Hell keeping his enemies at bay

Because Levi has a debt to pay. And Levi fucking hates debts.

Levi is one of the masses-but this time, when Erwin stops him in a hallway and promptly whispers, "Blouse isn't a good idea-"

-he knows, damn it, he knows.

In this snow globe world of theirs they have things like funding and taxes and that means keeping the upper echelons happy, safe, trustful. Humanity's strongest soldier cannot afford to bludgeon the already battered image of the Survey Corps by trysting with a new recruit, one who looks as young as he feels old.

The people want a saint, a saviour, not a mere man of flesh and blood.

But that is what he is.

Flesh.

Blood.

A man just like any other; perhaps more, for all he has ever known is flesh and blood and to be as pristine as fucking everybody is a lie he can carry only so far-

-so he wants her, regardless of society's disapproving gaze (twiceherageshamelessadvantagebaseunholy-we were wrong about him), regardless of how they will be whispered about amongst the walls, regardless of Erwin Smith's battle weary eyes infinitely trusting him to be the strong willed soldier that humanity needs-

-but, you see;

-he needs as well-

And so he shall take.

"I know," he says.

But I don't- 

-care.


End file.
